


The Illusionist

by chaosandcosmos



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mad King, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:30:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosandcosmos/pseuds/chaosandcosmos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had seen it with his own two eyes; he saw it every time he so much as blinked...the King being speared...the King falling to the ground...the King dying, grinning mouth full of blood and manic blue eyes glassy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Illusionist

The villagers were still angry, that much was clear. Although he lived in isolation, he still heard them, vaguely, from his cottage. Chants for revenge carried on the northern wind, as well as whispers of niggling fears that he could be asleep in the forest waiting for them to step into his trap. They would go out for routine hunts once the sun was down. While their children were safe and sleeping, they would look for the one who put the nightmares in their heads. 

(And the heads on stakes.)

He liked to imagine they carried torches and pitchforks – cliché, imbecile weapons that would do no more than minor harm to him. At this point, it was not underestimation. It was knowledge. He was certain they would not think to supply themselves with anything more powerful. They did not believe in what his rage could do. If the Mad King... _his_ Mad King...had taught him anything, it was that people had little to no wit when they were most afraid.

And after what they had done to his King, they were absolutely right to be so fearful.

He remembered the exact moment with a shroud of darkness. It had been in his dreams for as long as the day itself occurred. And when he was awake, it was just as unavoidable to think about. 

The people of the kingdom finally rebelled after nearly a year under the King’s reign. The execution numbers had been getting increasingly high and the amount of riots in the courtyard had finally gone down. But they knew that it was coming no matter what prevention measures were taken, both had anticipated the movement as soon as the crown was placed on the King’s head. 

(And Michael – Michael could not understand why they were so determined to protest the King’s rule; why they claimed him to be a monster and not a royal. The truth with which The Mad King spoke and decreed was a truth the villagers wanted to perpetually deny, a truth none of the preceding heirs had bothered with. Michael thought there was too much cajoling in this century and when the drunk of the previous King had died, so too had that aspect, much to his approval.)

Their army, or at least the considerably small percentage that had remained loyal, had put up a valiant effort for what it was worth. Michael had been very proud. However, the only thing that he’d have preferred not to have happened was his getting separated from the King. It was something that haunted him – the thought of not being there, or more significantly, of _Mogar_ not being there. If he had been at his side, would the King still be alive? 

He believed the answer was obvious. The idiot townsmen would have been no match for Mogar. He’d have torn their throats in seconds, devoured their defiance. But ultimately he was too late and the spear that’d pierced the heart of the Mad King...he had felt it as if it punctured his own. 

After that, everything went black. He was sure that he had transformed. He had hoped, more than anything, that he took vengeance. 

(Bloody, bloody vengeance.)

He can also recall running through the green of the surrounding woods and the adrenalin of being chased. By morons, he assumed, foolish enough to run after a creature that had just been given the definitive grasp for retribution. That was the worst part of it all, that he had no time to mourn. He knew that for the remainder of his life he’d be hunted – associating with a King such as one provincially renowned as being “mad” would do that, he supposed. 

So he resorted to hiding away, not out of fear, but out of his own volition. What was out there for him besides death? The Red King soon took over the throne and the land had gone back to what it once was – a worthless property filled with lowly panderers. It made him absolutely sick.

In his time of seclusion, he had considered returning to the royal castle and reclaiming the crown for his own. He had no qualms about his ability to do so – the people were cowards through and through, which is why it had taken them so long to stand up to the King. And even so, most still ran as they watched the fate of the assassin and his friends. But what would be the purpose of his rule besides occupying the throne from the First King’s foolish heirs? He doubted he could be half the leader the man he’d stood beside had been.

That night he went to bed in a blank state. His only real thoughts were of how badly he needed milk and some kind of meat. He’d been hunting game for the past year and it was now becoming scarce in his area. He either had to branch out or plant more crops in lieu of finding animals to butcher. Going to the village was not an option. But he definitely needed to find a cow to sustain a fair milk source. 

This way of living was nothing compared to the life he had shared with the King. And if it kept up this way, which was looking very likely, he’d rather bare himself to the angry townsfolk and greet his own demise. 

As he entertained the idea, there resounded a sudden knock on his door.

Immediately he gripped his dull diamond sword and held it out towards the noise. His position was no more exposed than intended...how could someone be here, aware of it? He’d made sure he was out of sight, out of any distance between civilizations and had been specifically careful of his tracks when he left each second day. 

How was it possible?

The knock persevered, speed calmer than it first had been.

Despite his paranoia and wariness, he thought to himself, ‘If it were any of my enemies, surely they would have broken the thing down’.

Keeping his beloved blade in front of him, he approached the door. For a minute, he regretted not allowing himself windows. But that was a moot point because just as much as he could see out, others could see in. He didn’t want that.

Quickly turning the knob and swinging it open, he brought both of his hands back to the grip. 

Instead of a crowd of loathsome citizens, he was faced with the eerie vision of a hooded stranger accompanied by the guise of shadows. But as soon as the torches of Michael’s home fell upon his person, the stranger removed the cloak. And beneath it a familiar face was revealed in the light. 

Michael could not move.

His heart, already palpitating rapidly in suspense of the stranger’s arrival, had stopped in its beats. 

_This couldn’t be..._

And the stranger, who was so much more than that, only grinned and stepped across the frame. “What is it?” he questioned in mock-seriousness, “you look like you’ve just seen a phantom—”

Before he could laugh at his own terrible joke, Ryan was thrown backwards into Michael’s east wall by the very same, very _furious_ man. “Now don’t,” he tried fruitlessly, before the other erupted.

“YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD!” Michael gripped the man’s cloak tighter. This was real. This was real and he was not dead. He was not dead. He was supposed to be dead. He was shouting into the face of a King who’d died long ago. 

The Warrior’s thoughts were racing a mile a minute and he couldn’t make sense of any one of them.

Not bothering to struggle against Michael’s hold, Ryan looked down at him sheepishly, sandy brown hair falling into his eyes. “Well, here I am.”

“HERE YOU ARE, MAKING _JOKES_ ABOUT IT, WHAT THE FUCK!” He couldn’t calm down, not at all. He’d had many a hallucination where his Mad King came to him, told him that he was safe, that he was still alive. How could he know that this wasn’t one of them? Reality and his wishes were apparently cooperating but now...he couldn’t tell if it was in his head.

Even if it was not his imagination and Ryan was actually in front of him, whole and being, how could it be explained? He had seen it with his own two eyes; he saw it every time he so much as blinked...the King being speared...the King falling to the ground...the King dying, grinning mouth full of blood and manic blue eyes glassy.

The image was burned into his head after a year’s worth of sleepless nights. But as he stared at the contradiction before him – the man of the memory himself breathing and safe and without a fissure in his chest, it began to dissipate, being replaced with what he now saw: his King, still alive after all this time.

_After all this time._

That reminded him that he had been put through an emotional ringer during the aftermath of this “death”. He had mourned him every time he picked up his sword, every time he looked up at the crescent moon, every time he fucking _breathed_. He felt a pain similar to what he imagined Ryan must have felt upon being stabbed. But, apparently, that had not been real. 

Michael was upset.

In a fit of Mogar-like fury, he swung his fist with no real direction. It was an animal instinct – fight now, think later. It usually won him a lot of battles but mostly it was a natural response to anything that upset him. Take for instance, the fact that Ryan never once considered what affect his death might have on him, much less his feelings in general. 

The hit landed and Michael heard a thud, followed by an irritated groan. His vision cleared the red enough to notice that he had managed to get Ryan’s nose and conclude that the force must’ve caused his head to hit the wall. He didn’t feel at all regretful, the prick deserved it. What was physical pain compared to emotional trauma? But that didn’t stop him from looking after the man – it was an immediate response.

He finally let go of the hold he’d had on him and dampened a cloth to clean the blood that was leaking profusely out of his nose. It didn’t look to be broken, but Michael treated it like it was. Ryan insisted on nursing himself and it went back to silence. Then, voice sounding slightly stuffed, Ryan said something that managed to rekindle the flames of Michael’s anger. “I...I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t understand,” he muttered acidly, resorting to pacing the room in an attempt to stop himself from inflicting any more damage. “I thought you were _dead_. I grieved over you. I spent thirteen months believing you had been killed. It fucking hurt and of course you don’t understand; why would you?”

He approached the previous King and again grasped his coat aggressively, only this time it was to pull him in. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be beaten into you...” With that, he kissed his Mad King with an intensity that would leave no room for misinterpretation. It felt so good to be able to do it after so long of waiting.

Their relationship was one that could be quite puzzling to understand. Despite his title, Michael had never been afraid of the King. And, to Michael, the King never had seemed as mad as what was said around him. In the beginning, he only joined the guards as an outlet for his second side, the creature inside of him that was born in anger. And when he was asked to attend personal visits to the royal chambers as a consultant and not a bedmate much to his surprise, he began to grow fond of the King’s company.   
As soon as they committed their first execution together, Michael knew his feelings were out of his hand. 

Ryan didn’t react to him in any drastic sense, which he confessed was much better than being pushed away. He merely made his mouth more pliant and whispered into his lips: “I came back to you, didn’t I?” It only served to make Michael all the more desperate.

When they separated, Ryan continued to gaze down into the other’s complex brown eyes. “I kept you safe by staying away this long,” he pointed out. 

Michael felt himself warm with the idea of Ryan being concerned about him but in all honestly, he could have faced what was out there as long as he was with the King. “I still don’t regret punching you,” he declared boldly. 

Ryan merely laughed. “I deserved it,” he agreed.

They kissed again, tasting each other and what it was like to know how the other felt instead of simply guessing or assuming. It was all consuming and fervent and made Michael briefly forget all the pain he’d felt when Ryan was supposedly deceased.

It was late and all he wanted to do was remain sure that Ryan was here, that this was real, so he decided to take advantage of the situation. Pulling the taller man to his bed, he pushed him down so he was sitting on the foot of it, position assuring that he was in control. “Since you have yet to regain your power and since you’re under my roof, at least for tonight you’re going to do as _I_ say.”

The grin with which the entire kingdom was familiar made an appearance as Ryan’s face darkened in challenge. “Is that so?” he questioned, left eyebrow quirking. “Well then, _Sir_ , what is your first command?”

“Strip,” Michael said, feeling a thrill in response to the role reversal. 

Ryan obliged, slowly taking off the articles of his clothing. But as he reached down, Michael stopped him.

“No,” he demanded, smirking. “Leave the kilt.”

As they fell into the relatively small bed, Michael pulled away from planting his lips on Ryan’s pectorals, just above his heart. “Pretend to be dead again and I’ll kill you myself, you got it?”

Ryan chuckled at this and looked up at the other earnestly. “There would be no greater honour, my Liege.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by "The Empty Hearse". Except Michael didn't grow a mournstache. Ew.
> 
> Earlier I was considering making this into at least a two-shot to explain how Ryan did what he did and what he was planning, but since I included everything else I wanted to in this one, I feel like this is all right on its own. Thoughts?


End file.
